


Young Angry and Horny

by stonecoldsilly



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Feral Jaskier | Dandelion, Getting Together, Happy Ending, Jealous Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, M/M, Multi, feral bards
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-08
Updated: 2020-09-08
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:08:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26350915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stonecoldsilly/pseuds/stonecoldsilly
Summary: The first time Valdo Marx sends assassins after Jaskier, Geralt doesn’t even notice.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion/Valdo Marx
Comments: 43
Kudos: 741





	Young Angry and Horny

**Author's Note:**

> in honour of Joey Batey blessing us with his brief presence on the twitter once more <3  
> also thank you to moony for suggesting the title...

...

The first time Valdo Marx sends assassins after Jaskier, Geralt doesn’t even notice.

They are slightly better dressed than the usual bandits that tend to accost them in the woods, and there are enough of them to cause even a Witcher some moment’s hard breathing, but none of them make a direct move against the bard, apparently having decided to take out the larger threat first.

He finishes them off, breath still harsh and burning, and a long loop of apple peel lands at his feet. Jaskier is watching him, eyes dark, and legs swinging idly from the tree Geralt shoved him towards. He is at least ten feet off the ground, and looks monumentally unbothered by the hordes of attackers, using his pocket knife to cut neat little slices of apple and place them delicately in his mouth.

‘Are you quite finished?’ Jaskier says, as though remarking on the weather, and Geralt just snorts.

…

The second time Valdo Marx sends an assassin, she manages to get Jaskier halfway into bed with her before Geralt recognises the curse waiting to ensnare him and throws her out of the nearest window. 

…

The third time, Geralt is out hunting drowners when they attack, and the only sign Jaskier gives on their reunion is a split lip, which he waves off as a parting gift from a vexed husband when Geralt asks.

…

The fourth time, in as many months, they are chased through the streets of Oxenfurt by three pairs of hunters, three armed with crossbows and the others with spears, herding them towards the docks and cutting off their escape routes methodically. Jaskier mutters curses and swears vengeance under his breath as they run, but Geralt is too busy listening out for their attackers to pay him any mind. 

This seems excessive for a cuckolded husband, even to him.

Jaskier just glares at him when he voices this theory, and then pulls himself up the wall after him with far greater ease than Geralt would have expected, landing softly on the roof and making for the nearest patch of shadow. 

Moonlight illuminates the chimneys, and the faint din of revelry from the canal quarter nearly drowns out the retreat of the people hunting them, but Geralt listens for another half hour just to be certain. 

Jaskier waits next to him more patiently that Geralt could ever have dreamed of seeing him, still and cold as though carved from marble, something implacable and stiff twisting that usually merry expression. 

His heartbeat is reassuringly steady, and slow, and the Witcher doesn’t realise for far too long that it is a countdown, not a metronome. 

…

There is something different about Jaskier, in the weeks after Oxenfurt. He moves with purpose, instead of dancing freely. He smiles less, but laughs more, biting and harsh. 

They head in the direction of Cidaris, and afterwards Geralt tries to tally how Jaskier guided their path, how exactly he was persuaded, but the forks in the road were too subtle to be noticed. 

He talks less, and stands taller, proud and stern, marching alongside Roach as though clad in bright steel. Geralt lets him keep his silence, but he does notice. Jaskier has never hesitated to share his thoughts before, no matter the topic. He does not act like a man afraid of death, he does not fret or worry about why men are after him, but the habitual softness of the poet seems to harden into sharper edges.

The songs he sings, when he does sing, are dark and haunting melodies, minor keys haunting their steps. 

…

They reach Cidaris, and as always, there is a banquet Jaskier is invited to perform at. Geralt has already received two contracts for drowners and other pests, but the unexpected gap in their usual rhythm throws him off. 

Jaskier will always plead for Geralt to attend with him, no matter the occasion. He uses all his wiles to wear him down, making fine promises and fluttering his eyelashes just so. Geralt will give in eventually, when Jaskier steps just within arms reach and looks up at him with those big blue eyes, lips charmingly parted into a pout, persuasion written in every line of his body. It is very difficult to resist, for reasons Geralt is not quite sure he wants to think about. 

This time, Jaskier doesn’t say a word.

He pays no heed to what Geralt is doing but attends to his toilet diligently, pulling out his finest oils and scents, the most expensive little pots that Geralt is oathsworn never to touch. He dresses as though donning armour for battle, checking every thread of his doublet for wear and polishing his boots until they gleam. The tension winds tighter in the cramped little room over the inn, and Geralt watches him openly, making no pretence at his confusion.

He paints his eyes with kohl, and lines his lips in plush pink, drawing the gaze deliberately to his sweet mouth. The last traces of the bard who jests and japes are concealed completely. In his place, a siren. 

Geralt makes sure his sword is strapped securely to his back and follows him out of the inn.

Jaskier glances at him then, a quick sideways dart that betrays nothing.

‘You mean to come with me?’

‘I normally do.’

Jaskier keeps walking, pace brisk, and his mouth pulls into a grim line.

‘I don’t want you to interfere.’ 

‘In what?’ He asks, trying to work out why Jaskier is dressed for a far finer court than the one they are to attend, and what he is planning.

‘Whatever happens.’

He tries for a joke. ‘You know I keep myself out of the affairs of men.’

Jaskier’s face twists then, a curious little half smile appearing on his face, before he schools his expression once more.

‘Your word.’

Whatever is going on, it’s enough to have Jaskier bristling for battle, and Geralt has never been afraid of a fight.

‘My word.’

Jaskier nods once, sharply, and they continue on, the Witcher following the bard.

…

The evening progresses as smoothly as usual, with Jaskier performing and delighting the crowd. He is on top form, maidens swooning all over the place, dark promise in his eyes as he seduces the entire room at once. Not a note of his performance is out of place, and Geralt has seen enough to know by now. 

He stands to the side, alone, refusing to be drawn into conversation, eyes scanning the crowd implacably for the threat. He doesn’t step ten paces from Jaskier the whole time, truly acting the bodyguard. He focuses on Jaskier’s heartbeat, the rhythm of it keeping time with his music, and occasionally it skips a beat as the crowd parts and swells in the dance.

He follows Jaskier’s gaze, and a flash of rich blue tickles the edge of his vision before disappearing amongst the bustle and hum of the audience.

…

The evening winds to a close, and Jaskier collects his fee from the grateful lord, or lady, or whoever it is that owns this heap. They head back through the castle to the main gates through empty hallways, and nothing has happened to Jaskier to be worth all this fuss, Geralt thinks optimistically.

The trap is sprung.

Jaskier steps through the archway of the corridor, and his scent shifts immediately. His chatter ceases, and Geralt can hear his heart beat doubletime. The air changes around him, and his hackles raise before he has even worked out where the danger lies. Salt and smoke rise around him, acrid and burning his senses, and Jaskier’s posture stiffens even as Geralt puts a hand to his sword. 

He turns, and there is a man watching them, from an alcove a few paces away. He is tall, and handsome, expression icy and dressed in rich blue finery.

His eyes glitter in the torchlight.

Geralt steps in between them, to protect Jaskier from whoever this is.

‘Don’t.’ Jaskier snaps, but he doesn’t even turn to look at Geralt as he says it. 

Jaskier doesn’t take his gaze off the man for a moment, but something in his demeanour turns predatory and watchful. He _prowls_ closer to the man, and cocks his head, taut with anticipation. 

‘It took a while for the rumour to reach me, but it did, eventually. An _apoplexy_ , Julian?’ The stranger leans forward, voice soft despite his harsh words. ‘I thought you’d want me to suffer at your own hands.’

Geralt stares at the man Jaskier tried to wish dead, and the name rises dimly in his mind. Valdo Marx, who apparently sent men to kill Jaskier in turn.

Out of Marx’s sight, Jaskier’s hand twists up his back to where he keeps his dagger, tucked beneath his doublet, and Geralt had no idea one man alone would pose such a threat. Jaskier has never drawn his weapon first before, even when faced with furious cuckolds and drunken brawlers.

Geralt steps closer, ready to intervene, but even without looking at him, knowing the direction of his thoughts, Jaskier waves his hand dismissively in Geralt’s direction.

He stalks right up to the man, until they stand a breath apart.

‘If you’re going to send assassins after me, send _better_ ones.’ 

A flash of metal is the only warning Geralt gets, and Jaskier lunges in one sweeping arc and buries his knife in the man’s shoulder. 

Jaskier is fierce when roused, and a glint of satisfaction and pride sears Geralt somewhere deep despite the surprise of seeing the normally frivolous bard so wild.

Marx lets out one pained snarl, and reaches up with his good arm. He yanks the blade out again swiftly, flanks heaving. 

The spray of blood glistens crimson on Jaskier’s face, and he bares his own teeth right back at him.

They crash into the wall together, Marx shoving him against the stone as Jaskier writhes and scratches and tears at him like a man possessed. 

Geralt halts his motion, caught out. He does not know whether to jump in or not, torn between protecting Jaskier and honouring his promise not to intervene. Jaskier can handle himself in a fight, years of experience in savage bar fights and slipping the grasp of palace guards under his belt.

They tussle over the dagger, still caught in Marx’s hand, and Marx uses his greater bulk to pin him, grappling his wrists even as he tries to twist away, and slams Jaskier’s head against the wall. 

He blinks in pain and confusion, and then Marx snarls at him again.

Jaskier _stops fighting_. He holds himself still, and Marx slides a hand through that soft brown hair and yanks hard at the roots. Jaskier sags deeper into his hold, for once obedient to the threat right in front of him.

Geralt is inches away, and he knows he can move faster than any human, but the sight of the knife in Marx’s hand fills him with panic. He wants to grab Jaskier and haul him away, tear his attacker’s head from his body and make sure nothing threatens him again. Damn his promises, he thinks. A growl escapes him, but neither men spares him any attention.

Jaskier pants for air, chest heaving, and Marx slides the bloody blade closer to his neck. 

Geralt reaches out his hand to snatch Jaskier away, but the air warps around him again before he can keep up with it. The scent of honey, thick and warm, pours off Jaskier, who stares up at the other bard with huge dilated pupils. 

Marx traces the knife just beneath the edge of his doublet and slices his buttons off, tugging his chemise askew and baring Jaskier’s chest, rosy pink nipples hard in the cold air of the corridor.

Geralt stares, frozen in place. 

Jaskier’s eyelids flutter shut, and Marx bends to press his lips to his exposed skin, the mirror of where blood still seeps from the stab wound Jaskier inflicted. He _buries_ his teeth in Jaskier’s pale shoulder, and the hiss of pain that escapes him turns soft and gasping as it trails off.

Marx bites his way up Jaskier’s neck, and whispers, gentle and mocking at once. ‘Your pet dog guards you so well, doesn’t he?’

Jaskier’s eyes meet his, looking at him for the first time since Marx appeared, and Geralt is trapped in his gaze, helpless. Marx grinds into him languidly, pushing him closer against the wall, and his head lolls to the side in surrender.

‘Leave.’ He hisses out, and Geralt turns and flees the corridor.

…

For once Jaskier is the one bathing, while Geralt paces around him in tight circles, feet unwilling to stray too far lest he shift and change into someone else again while out of Geralt’s sight.

‘What the fuck was that.’ He grates out, jaw clenched, once the silence has lingered too long.

Jaskier presses a finger to the bruises on his hips as though relishing them, and a hateful little smile appears on his face.

‘Have you ever loved someone, and despised them, even in the same breath?’

Geralt stops dead, and a shiver trickles up his spine. 

‘You love him?’

There are no songs, no poems with the other man’s name in them. Not that Geralt has heard. The only mention in all their years together was when Jaskier babbled at that accursed djinn.

‘If there’s a fine line between adoration and animosity, then he is the love of my life.’

Geralt stares at him, limp and sated and well fucked, steam rising off the water and curling his hair at the ends. Jaskier trails a hand over his shoulder idly, and he lets out a tiny gasp inaudible to anyone without Geralt’s hearing as his fingertips catch on the bite Valdo Marx left on his skin.

‘Everything two people can be to each other, he and I are…or have been…or will be.’

The jealousy spikes in his gut before he can get a grip on it. That someone else, some jumped up musician, might mean more to Jaskier than the person he travels with most of the year, that someone else might have had their wounds bandaged by his warm hands, that they could have known his care and loyalty, his thousand little kindnesses, the way he laughs in his bedroll when the moon is hanging overhead and all the world is quiet, and they are the only people for leagues distant; it _burns_ him. 

The realisation that he might not be the most important person in Jaskier’s life is a shock, and he wonders how the hell he got so arrogant as to expect it. 

‘I suppose you might think of him as my Yennefer.’

That throwaway line sinks like a stone in his stomach, tossed over Jaskier’s shoulder as the bathwater trickles down his spine. 

It is three years since Rinde, and the pattern of his meetings with Yennefer have not changed. Their paths cross, and they fuck passionately and fight viciously until one of them has had enough and leaves. Usually Yennefer is the one to storm off, remembering that Geralt cannot give her what she needs, and more rarely Geralt flees, remembering that Yennefer cannot give him what he wants.

Jaskier leaves him to it every time, but that knowing little smile he wears upon their reunion makes a lot more sense in hindsight.

‘What is he to you?’ Geralt blurts out, words escaping him before he can trammel his lips shut.

Jaskier rolls his neck languidly and looks up at him.

‘My brother-in-arms, my dearest companion, my beloved, my sweetest muse…’

His face darkens imperceptibly.

‘My sworn rival, my bitter enemy, the man I will one day kill.’ He shrugs, as though to be all those things at once is possible and makes sense in Jaskier’s head. 

‘You never mentioned him.’

‘You never asked.’ He says casually, and heaves himself out of the water with a wince Geralt could have done without seeing. ‘Besides, it’s in rather poor taste to discuss a past muse with the current one.’

_‘Current one’_ jabs at his composure. Geralt does not like the implication that there could be another, someday, after him. He barely asked for Jaskier’s loyalty, chased him away at every turn, but the idea of the bard leaving more permanently sours in his mouth.

When Jaskier has wrung all of Geralt’s tales dry, will he find another, some new muse to follow with bright eyes?

The night outside is in full bloom outside, cool air drifting from the open window. He turns away from Jaskier, nude and unashamed, drying himself leisurely, in search of safer territory. Geralt’s gaze is drawn to a tiny moth fluttering closer to the lit candle and burning itself to a crisp with a pathetic little sizzle. His mouth pulls into a grimace at the sight.

Jaskier climbs into the bed, and settles in easily, as though he hasn’t fucked the so-called love of his life and then come back to Geralt still smelling of another man’s spend and expecting to share his warmth as though it is any other night.

‘Why are you here then?’

Jaskier blinks up at him, obviously worn out by his exertions. He pats the bed, and Geralt douses the candle and gets in, every movement stiff and awkward.

They lie next to each other, inches apart, but Jaskier does not answer. 

Geralt will not find sleep without the answer, something tugging at him, deep and aching, telling him that now is the time to ask, now or never.

He tries again.

‘If he’s the love of your life, why aren’t you with him, instead of…’ His voice trails off. Even in the gloom of the dark room he can feel the heat of Jaskier’s gaze.

‘He’s my Yennefer...’ 

Jaskier says, very quietly, and puffs out a breath. The beating of his heart picks up, faster than Marx ever made it race. 

‘And…you’re my Geralt.’ 

Geralt stares up at the ceiling. It really does sound simple, when he puts it like that.

Slowly, achingly slowly, he dares to let his hand nudge against Jaskier’s.

Their little fingers brush, and then Jaskier lets out a heartbreakingly small breath and hooks them together.

Nerves thrill through him at the simplest touch. 

He grins, giddy as anything, glad that the darkness will hide how foolish he looks, to be in love. 

Before the feeling escapes him, he manages, ‘The same. To you.’

They lie awake together, staring up at the ceiling in pitch black darkness, their hearts beating in mismatched time…

…and they fall asleep smiling.


End file.
